Obsessions
by plaid stockings
Summary: StevenFlannery—Okay, so, he's going to make this work out.
1. Pent–Up Frustrations

**Ch. I  
Pent–Up Frustrations**

He's frustrated.

He knows it, and he's fairly sure everyone around him knows it, too. All except for her, with awkward smiles and genuinely worried questions about his health. Even if the situation is, indeed, spelled out for her, she's too innocent. Plus, Steven has his reputation to maintain, and sex is a deliriously dangerous subject, when you are an international star. Also, he's fairly sure he genuinely loves her, and that only adds insult to injury, seeing as he not only has to deal with lust, but also with tangible, actual feelings.

He's frustrated, and half the world knows it. Usually he wouldn't care, but when half the world includes Wallace, the situation is more complicated. Because Wallace doesn't get that the best way for Steven to deal with this is just by _ignoring _it, or hoping it will go away, or _something_ that doesn't involve actual contact with Flannery. So, Wallace just grabs him by the shoulders one day, and shoves him against her during one of the gym leaders' meeting.

It … doesn't go so well: Flannery's face goes red from – he deduces – embarrassment, and every nerve of his skin sparks off, making his legs tremble and his cock react. It's shameful that he's instantly, achingly hard, just because he feels the soft press of her breasts against his chest and because his ears are dangerously close to her mouth when she makes a flustered little noise. That's why he darts off, stiff as a board, towards the bathroom with a grimace. And it's horrible and disgusting, but if he doesn't touch himself thinking of her, then he's going to keep staining his sheets, like a teenager or a lewd man. To make things worse, he likes to think they are pretty good friends, and it's more often than not when they have awkward conversations and flustered expressions (especially on his part … ).

He's so horribly frustrated. And Wallace – he does not give up. Wallace makes it a point to try and get them together, when, _obviously_, Flannery doesn't want anything to do with him, and he doesn't want to force her of shove his status on her face as a way of blackmail (like his flamboyant best friend keeps doing). But something must happen behind his back, because one night, as he drowns himself into papers just to try and forget about her, Flannery sends a message to his pokénav, and it reads _when will you visit Lavaridge?_

Steven nearly jumps out of his chair and eagerly replies, the machine almost shaking in his nervous hands. He asks her what is she talking about, although he promises to visit her – Lavaridge, he means Lavaridge – in the near future, if she so wishes. She replies with a nonchalant, _alterations in the bedrock surrounding Mt. Chimney. I thought you'd be interested. _And he is! Of course he is, with what she being there, touring and existing and holding out his hand, and kissing him –

_I'll look into it_, he replies, and loosens his ascot tie, feeling too hot even in the room's cool ambient.

* * *

He's tired.

He does not sleep well. The night is filled with dreams of her, and vibrantly red hair on his pillow, and he has to get up and do something about his recurring hard-on. He takes coffee twice before leaving the house, but even still … not even the short nap he takes during the flight to Lavaridge helps him regain any form of energy. He briefly wonders why he pushes himself so hard for her, when he's fairly sure that everything she feels for him is admiration. His champion status hinders his attempts to be gracious and romantic with women – it's happened before; but never in such grandness. Steven Stone has never spent a night awake just because of a woman. He has never lost sleep over the way someone's skin felt against his.

And yet, his heart hammers loudly against his chest when Flannery waves from afar, a bright smile already on her pretty face. _And yet_, he needs to harrumph quietly (just to make sure his voice doesn't crack with wanton lust) before he greets her in that polite, calm way of his.

"Good morning," he says, and marvels at the ability he has to maintain a perfect blank face even in the front of her, "I trust everything has been alright with you, ever since we last met." And he mentally chides himself for bringing up the incident in which he was pushed against her, the palm of his hand against the small of her back for leverage, her mouth against his ear –

"Hello!" she replies excitedly, a healthy blush to her cheeks (in no doubt from the air, of course, he denies any possibilities that she might be infatuated with him, because every other woman disappointed him, and he does not want to create false hopes), "Yes, it has, thank you for wondering. And you?"

* * *

He's nervous.

They dabble in small talk; the awkward, cute kind of conversation that makes him blush more often than not, because of minuscule innuendos that only he would ever understand, in his sex-crazed state of frustrated self-satisfaction. Flannery – after showing him the grounds around Mt. Chimney, the place hot and stuffy – does notice the bags under his eyes, and wonders whether he would like to come with her to have some tea, or at the very least eat some scones – and she says that she might not be the best cook, but she assures him she's good enough not to burn the food …

How could he ever turn down the offer to visit her home, where they can be alone and where he can feed his fantasies safely and resolutely? How could he ever tell her no, how could he ever deny her something, the way he is so incredibly taken in with this pretty girl? Steven just nods, incredibly taken in with her and with the way her stomach is so pale and soft under the bright sunlight.

Her house smells of apples. She leads him into the kitchen, talking about her gym leader's life, about the way she sometimes loses but usually wins, and then bends over to grab whatever. His throat tightens and he loosens his cravat (it's starting to become an habit) as he gulps in dry. Her pants are loose, so they drop just slightly, until he can see the small dimples in the end of her lithe back, and he wants to kiss them, bad.

"Would you like sugar with your coffee?"

He snaps out of it soon enough, his heart hammering wildly and loudly in his chest, threatening to leap out through his throat; he manages to muster out a shaky affirmation, and when she turns and puts herself in the tips of her toes, it's her shirt that rises dangerously. This time, he drops the spoon he is holding, and it clatters on the tiled floor and he can already feel all the blood in his body rushing away from his brain and into his –

"Are you … alright?" she asks, turning to him with a concerned expression, her right hand already reaching for his forehead as she says, "Maybe you're coming down with a fever? You're looking really red."

When her hand touches his skin, he stiffens in his seat; he's fairly relieved that it doesn't draw steam, because her palm is cool and soft, and his face feels like one hundred degrees, exactly, the line of boiling point, and he can't help but to reach back instinctively. Steven regrets it immediately, because the look of hurt on her face seeps inside his heart and breaks it into pieces. He feels horrible and divided, because he knows that if he remains close to her, then she will notice the growing pain inside his pants and she will be horrified and his reputation and his heart will break and die, and crumble.

"I … I'm sorry—?" she says, shocked and worried and blushing madly.

So, Steven reaches out for her hand and pulls her closer to him and presses his lips against hers in what is nothing but a hastily done decision in the heat of the moment (and isn't that a heated moment in his skin and nerves and groin). Flannery makes a surprised noise, and squirms against him when he slips his tongue inside her mouth in an all-for-nothing play; after seconds that drag for millennia, Flannery parts to breathe, her cheeks a dark tone of pink, her mouth relaxed and her eyes downcast.

He feels faint and can only mumble something like, "I'm, I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me, Flannery," and he keeps babbling pathetically until Flannery looks him in the eyes again and leans in for another kiss. He feels his chest swell with pride and disbelief as he pulls her closer, as he pulls her softly into his lap. He tries taking it slow – he does, but his desire for her is so much that when she pulls apart to breathe, her cheeks dark (and it's by then he understands that she's not as experienced him when it comes to matters such as these), he kisses her jaw and her neck.

Steven practically forces himself not to drag his teeth across the soft skin of her neck, just to make sure he doesn't startle her, because he doesn't want this to end, not so soon. Not when she has her knees on each side of his thighs, not when he's dreamt of this many times now. She is leaning on him now, hiding away her face, and Steven keeps his hands tightly close to his thighs, because even if he wants nothing more than to touch her, he doesn't dare to, because he will ruin everything. That is his reasoning. Which is why, when she leans her forehead on his shoulder and says, "I've liked you for a long time," he closes them into fists, feeling the helplessness of want take over him.

"S-so have I," he manages to get out, gritting his teeth when she inhales and her leg brushes against his erection. He doesn't know whether she's noticed it yet, but he doesn't want her to learn that he gets so wound up just because of her. Just because of one kiss or two. "I was … however, under the impression that … _ungh_—" But the pretense is lost when he groans into her ear, bucking up slightly into her thigh, force of reflex, and Flannery just _freezes_ above him.

Steven bites into his lip to muffle the rest of the sounds that are threatening to arouse from his throat, all the while thinking that it will be impossible for him, to escape this one, and that he's ruined everything – and that is when she shyly kisses him again. Flannery reaches for his closed hand slowly, and brings it towards her waist, placing it there. He thinks he might die.

"I … I don't know what I'm supposed to do," Flannery tells him, hiding away her face again. He feels his left hand flinch when she talks, because her lips are close to his ear. "So … can you tell me what to do? I'll … I'll try my best!"

He puts his hands on her shoulders and looks her in the eye: "I don't want to force you to do anything."

Flannery does a little sound, and giggles, half-nervous, her thumb hooked on his cravat as he swallows. "It's not like I haven't thought of this before," she says, and his whole resolve goes down like a castle made out of cards; he grabs onto her arms and his eyes widen. "S … Should I have not said that?"

"It's not … No, no. It's too soon," he says, and even if he is hard and ever so willing to … well, he knows it's too soon for them, yet. But he is aching inside his pants and Flannery is too shy to actively take care of the situation, so Steven just presses a chaste kiss on her lips and says, "I need to go. I'll see you later—"

And in a startling display of ferocity, she sits on him, finally putting all her weight (which, frankly, isn't all that much) on him. Steven lets out a hissing sound as she leans on his shoulders for support. "Sorry," she sheepishly says, "Did that hurt?" He doesn't trust his voice, so he just shakes his head twice, stiffly. "I … I'm not letting you go out … l-like that," Flannery stubbornly says, and for a moment she becomes the ferocious gym leader conducting a battle. "So."

_So_.

Steven doesn't know what so say without having his voice crack, or without letting out a groan or (god forbid) a moan, and he's not going to tell her what to _do_ –

And he doesn't have to: by the time he notices, Flannery is out of his lap and on her knees, a fierce blush covering her cheeks, and Steven's hands grab the chair's arm in expectation and … he's feeling too nervous for it to make sense; he's no beginner on what it comes to sex but – she is and maybe he'll ruin everything for her. The chain of alarming thoughts, however, comes undone when she puts her elbows on his thighs and unfastens his belt; his brain short-circuits and all he can do is to grab the chair's arm _tighter _as her hands explore and if Wallace knows about this, he's never going to let him live it down (not that he wants to, ever).

Down come the doubts, then – is he appropriate? Is he her first, and if so, does she really want to do this, or is she just being pressured by his urgent need? The chain of alarming thoughts steels itself in his brain again as she runs her thumb across his cock – and his head falls back as he swallows.

"Am I … doing it right?" she asks, and squeezes slightly; his eyes roll in their orbits, and Steven's knuckles are white. If she doesn't know how to pleasure a man, then she is hiding it very well, especially when she strokes with curiosity latent in her touch. He lets out a straining sigh and wonders – this is the most fun he's ever had, he's sure of that. And then, just as he is getting used to her hands, because if he comes it will be embarrassingly early, he feels a warmth and – he has to see to believe, but she's actually swallowing him, eyes closed and eyebrows frowning in concentration, a hand holding her bangs in place, tucking her hair behind her ear.

It takes all the self-control in the world not to buck into her mouth – but he's good at that, so it's fine. Except she uses her teeth, and when her teeth scrape against his flesh, the hyper-sensitivity too much for either his brain or his cock, Steven's hips grind towards her. Flannery hums, then, and the vibration (and the fact that she opens her eyes, then, just to see his reaction) sends him over the top, and he's reduced to a relaxed mass of slim muscles and low, velvety groans of her name.

"That was – _ungh_ … " she stops and wipes her mouth with her fingers, and he comes to the realization that she's _swallowed_, "I wouldn't mind doing it again."

Steven, too relaxed and tired and _happy_, just slumps in her kitchen chair, feeling his neck cramp. He resists the urge to ask her where she's learned to give blowjobs, because would that not only be insulting (he's a gentleman after all), it would be degrading, and … it's not like he's _complaining.

* * *

_

He's frustrated.

He knows it, and she knows it, and everyone else around him knows it; he hasn't been able to forget about the way she worked her mouth on him, the way he managed to lose his composure for minutes, the way he had a mind-blowing orgasm just from _her_. Wallace just stares at him, like he knows what happened – and he probably does, knowing him – and he doesn't really annoy him about her, anymore. At least that's gotten out of the way.

But he's frustrated again and he wants to pin her to something and … he's a pervert, because she's still a virgin and he isn't, but she looks willing, and isn't that good? But they have not established a relationship, although he assumed immediately that they're now both unavailable, because, after all, he sort of loves her madly. He's frustrated and now it's not because he has no way to erase his sexual frustrations, but because he overthinks things too much.

As he watches her from across the table, ignoring the other gym leaders, and ignoring the way her cheeks turn rouge, he thinks that it could be worse.

After all, they've got all time in world to make things work.


	2. Waiting For You

**Ch. II  
Waiting For You**

His shirt smells of apples. His shirt smells of apples, and he can't _not_ do the connection between Flannery and apples, and from Flannery and apples, he goes to Flannery and heated kisses, and from Flannery and heated kisses he goes to kitchen chair and fumble-y touches and … and in that moment he drops the shirt, shocked and embarrassed that he's getting flustered over one of his _shirts,_ for God's sake. Especially because he does recognize that he might have infected her with his urgent need to feel release – and if he hadn't, then she wouldn't have climbed onto his lap, looking innocent and virginal and everything she is, and he wouldn't have pressured her into … well –

And it's shameful that he can't even bring himself to think about the word "blowjob", even though that's all it was – no way to embellish it, no way to downplay it; Steven can't help but to blush horribly whenever she comes into sight, can't help the terrible rush of heat that grows in his cheeks when Flannery does as much as to _talk_ to him – and it's like this: both Wallace and Winona trade amused glances whenever Steven interacts with Flannery. And it's, to be honest, annoying. And fairly hypocritical, since the treacherous pair shares as much sexual tension as he and Flannery, they just refuse to accept it.

"I can't see what your problem is," he says to him, one day, just after the gym leaders meet – Wallace widens his eyes melodramatically, like he's completely innocent. Steven frowns at him. "I understand that it might be funny to see me fail at social aptitude, but I expected more from you, Wallace. At least you."

The gym leader stares at him, smile in check and eyes almost sparkling, "It's just that your love life is the most interesting to happen in the past few days."

Steven just stares at him before frowning deeper and leaving, before the urge to get away overpowers the urge to sock him in the mouth. He tells himself he doesn't wish for another flood, or another drought, because even though that would distract everyone, it's still pretty bad of him to want it _again_.

* * *

Flannery invites him to see Lavaridge again.

He doesn't know what to do.

If he accepts, he'll just get overridden with unnecessary lewd feelings – if he declines, he'll feel bad and guilty, and he'll feel as if he's wasting the best thing in the world. But the thing is, he's terribly afraid of the consequences. Also, he's terribly afraid of her, too – although no one needs to know that. It's been far too long since he's been with a woman; he doesn't care for romance, he doesn't care for settling down, not when the world is so big and unexplored. Except that, for her, he'd be willing to throw away his ideals of traveling and exploring.

And that scares him. Horribly.

This is why Steven is all but confident as he gets down from his skarmory and meets the nice and normal town of Lavaridge again. It's still morning, but he makes it so that he arrives early. Steven wants to witness the awakening of the city, witness the sun rising, and, while at it, to search for some meteorite fragments.

"You're here!" It doesn't seem, however, that he'll get anything done; not when Flannery is running towards him, a smile on her face and on her eyes. Steven feels his cheeks heat at the display of affection and looks away from her stomach when she nears. He tells himself that he's going to wait on this relationship—the world is spinning too fast for him to feel any control over the situation, especially when she is so close that he can smell apples already. And apples remind her of her, and she reminds him of heated kisses and …

It's a vicious, cruel, cold and sarcastically amusing cycle.

It's when she stops abruptly that he realizes that she's blushing like mad, that her lips are pressed tightly together and that she's playing with her fingers without even noticing she's doing so. There's an awkward silence while they both try to figure out what to say. Steven can't help the warm smile that spreads across his face like melting butter, because even though they're not even touching, they're both nervous and – he's glad he's not the only one affected.

"I'm here," Steven says, slowly, and in what he hopes to be a reassuring voice. "You asked me to, right?"

He regrets saying the last five words immediately, because it makes him look like he's here to answer her every whim. Even though he _is_, and he would do anything for this slender, beautiful girl in front of him, he'd rather keep it secret. Flannery smiles at him nonetheless, and nods excitedly. They're back at their past relationship: he's nervous and trying to be relaxed, while she continuously blushes. In his opinion, they make a cute couple. He's tall and calm, and she's slim and short, excited and impervious to a bad mood.

"I thought you would like to … Well, we're going to have a meteor shower tonight. I just thought you'd maybe come with me? I mean, I don't know if you're busy … But you're here, now, so – I mean, I should've let you know before you were here, because – " She stops. _Because maybe he doesn't want to spend time with her_.

"I'd like that." He smiles harder at her. It's adorable but a little sad, the way she puts herself down. Flannery stares at him, and brings her hands to her cheeks, trying to cool them down. Steven can't help but to reach out and pull some bangs behind her ear, while she tries to regain control of her natural behaviour. Her cheek is firm and soft and warm, and his hand lingers on her jaw before she looks up at him, questioning and a little more flustered. Steven lets his hand drop unceremoniously, and another awkward silence is born. He glances towards the side, trying to keep his own blush in check.

"Ah, um, would you like to stop by my house? I haven't had breakfast yet …" Steven stares at his wristwatch. It's almost eleven, and he can't believe she's delayed such an important meal. "I just woke up, you see … Um." Flannery blinks and sighs, clearly embarrassed. He chuckles, and stifles the urge to take her into his arms. He doesn't know if she's made their "relationship" known to the rest of the townsfolk, and he'd rather not embarrass her further, at least not when word of it would inevitably reach the ears of her grandfather (or – and he shudders to think – his dad). She takes his laughter as a sign to go on, and they walk together.

* * *

Watching her eat is delectable, and he finds himself licking his lips more often than not, especially when she's eating a yogurt and keeps a small spoon between her full lips. Flannery chats animatedly, moving her hands around, spoon still there, in her mouth. He seldom hears anything she says – it's rude, he knows, but her tongue keeps darting out to moisten the spoon, and … he's sitting in the same chair as when she …

The connection is a bit too much.

He doesn't take anything, because he's eaten already (and plus – he eats at normal times, like _normal people_). He's just sitting in front of her, watching her eat and answering her questions when she asks them. Flannery is highly curious of the world outside, and shyly confesses that she has never been much of a traveller.

"But you're a gym leader," he blurts out, confused.

"Yes, I know." She sets the spoon on the small saucer by her left. He accompanies the movement with his eyes, almost unwillingly. "I grew up here, and … Well, it's not like I ever needed to go somewhere else. I went to Mauville sometimes, though. My grandfather took me there; I even met Wattson," she says, and her mouth opens in a smile. "He and Gramps were pretty friendly."

Steven crosses his legs and leans further, hands holding his head. He stares at her while she talks, and then questions: "Your grandfather was a good man. He talked a lot about you whenever we had a meeting. I was very fond of him." Flannery's cheeks turn red when he stops, and she takes a sip of water. To his eyes, it seems forced, but he doesn't comment.

"Well, he was … He has high hopes for me. Sometimes he drops by and he doesn't really seem pleased—it's like …" She stops, leans back in her chair, a tad defeated. "He stops by a lot to check on me. I'm not a little girl anymore – " Steven feels his cheeks flush, " – so I guess he just doesn't really trust me with his gym." She sighs, then shrugs and smiles apologetically. "Way to kill the mood, right? Sorry – "

"He thinks the world of you, you know. He always vouched for you at the meetings, even when someone said you were too young for the job. If there is something you need to work on, it's your confidence – you cannot be so morose about your battle strategies. Think positive. Pride and confidence will not harm you if you don't abuse them." There is a silence, and her smile becomes a little lighter; he lets out a discreet sigh of relief and plays with the table cloth, stealing glances at her while she puts the dish and spoon in the washing machine.

* * *

Somehow, he makes to the evening without having a seizure. Flannery decides to show him around town – not like a gym leader, pointing out the best training spots or the closest pokécenter, but like a local; the local stores and the little market, the café where they sell lava cookies, the … hot springs (and he makes it a point to drop by with her, later, when she grows out of her awkward shyness). For a town so small, Lavaridge is stock-full of interesting things.

"There are lots of old people, though," she says, and laughs about it. "Not many people choose Lavaridge to have kids in." He opts to omit that he – _they_ – will have to change that someday. "Most retired trainers come here to live out the rest of their days in peace and quiet. Plus, the hot springs are good for skin diseases and for healing burns." Flannery giggles and runs a hand through her fringe, a little mortified. "Sorry, I've been talking a lot. I guess I just really like it here."

"I like to hear you talk," Steven replies softly, and smiles at her when she fumbles with her bracelets. He decides to spare her and switch the subject: "I am beginning to feel hungry, though. Are there any restaurants around?" And when she begins to offer an invitation to a dinner in her home, he charmingly declines. He isn't sure he can hold out so long—being close to her without touching or kissing is torture, but he doesn't want it to be like their first kiss: hot and rapid and fairly lecherous on his part. Which will undoubtedly repeat if he tries to kiss her. His self-control is null when she is around.

"Well, there's a cosy diner by the springs, if you want that, but really, I don't mind having you for dinner – "

"That would be just fine," Steven says, and regrets the smidge of hurt that flashes by her eyes. "I don't want to burden you," he adds, by means of apology, and carefully studies her face.

"It's just that – Gramps is out of town, and it's just me in the house, so …" He completes the sentence automatically: she's lonely. He clenches his fist and squishes the urge to massage the bridge of his nose. He's clay in her hands, malleable and pliable like a toy. On one hand, he mustn't – and doesn't want to – leave her alone. On the other, he doesn't want her to be alone with him. It's a frail and weak excuse, his lack of proper control, but he isn't guilty of his body's demands, and the vivid fantasies his mind insists on replaying do not help. She smiles at him, the kind of smile that practically begs and orders at the same time. "You wouldn't be burdening me." He sets his jaw to say 'no' but – "_Please_?"

Steven knows he has lost.

* * *

Steven knows when to give up; if he can avoid doing so, then he will, but knowing when to give up is what makes him the winner. Not in her case though—Flannery only gives him two options: try to be the nice guy, charm her and watch as your reputation of confident, powerful young man goes down the drain thanks to your best friend and thanks to the blundering, stuttering, _blushing_ mess you've made of yourself. Or go off your rocker and die of lack of contact. There isn't winning, only losing.

He rather prefers the first – because at least he is with her – but sometimes he can't help but ask himself if giving up isn't the best option. Of course that once he actually meets with her, face to face and maybe (if it isn't too much to ask for) hand to hand, that option disappears. He's glad that his will only bends with her, because if that wasn't it, then he would be fairly—well—fucked (pun-slash-pick-up-line not intended).

They have a quiet dinner in her house, and he tries not to show that he knows she's particularly elated to have him there. Flannery is more open than a book, and he doesn't know if him reading her so easily makes her uncomfortable or not, so he doesn't show it. Not for a while, not while they are so sharp and fragile to each other, not while they are so new to one another – so he spends the whole dinner pretending that he doesn't see the way she keeps her smile in check or the way she purposefully avoids physical contact.

She's shy; it's heart-warming and cute, but he really can't deal with this at the moment. When Flannery sits down next to him on her couch, he lets his knee touch hers. She falters in her speech, and stutters, and Steven just stares at her with a soft smile. She very pointedly shuts up and stares at her grandfather's clock – he follows her gaze and takes in the time. He turns to her:

"We should probably – "

"Meteor shower is almost – "

"Right," she says, and gets up stiffly from the couch. "We can see it from the terrace."

He follows after her, curious as to why she's so nervous. Does his presence do that to her, or is it her mind? Steven is not quick to discard his theory that she is maybe thinking about touching him, like before, because if someone as careless about relationships (like him) cares so much for making a great impression on her instead of throwing her on her couch and having his way with her, then maybe she's doing it too. The prospect pleases him – and he isn't quick to forget her words about 'thinking about stuff, too'. Those few words had him wide awake and sleepless in his bed for days after …

The small veranda is packed with potted plants – one of which is jasmine, and it permeates the air with the smell – and it has a lovely sight to Lavaridge and what seems to be the beginning of Jagged Pass. It's very nice outside; the spring weather is cool but temperate, and he breathes in, satisfied. Flannery is bending over, elbows on the rail and head in her hands as she stares to the sky; Steven tries not to stare at her ass, because that would be impolite, and he doesn't want (well, sort of) a repeat of a few weeks ago.

The sky in Lavaridge is clear—he supposes it's from the tiny size of the town, and the way there is virtually no pollution. If he were more interested in sky than he is in her, then he would've been transfixed with it. But in the darkness, their only light source the light from the living room and the dim lamps in the street, the shadows play across her face when she widens her mouth and her eyes: "I saw one! I saw one!" And she points out to the sky, searching for his eyes; Steven steps closer to the railing, leans over as well, and smiles. His position is awkward, because he has to really hunch down in order to press against the metal bars, but for a while, he's happy that he's so near.

And then she kisses him.

It's a chaste soft little thing, but he feels his eyes widen and his fingers wrap, hard, around the metal railing until his knuckles turn numb. To catch him unaware is a feat on itself, but to manage to kiss him without him expecting it is plain _extraordinary_.

She pulls away mere seconds later, a little breathless and a _lot_ flustered, and looks away from him. Really? Really. Steven grabs her by the hand; tips her chin up and gives her what it should be a proper kiss. He understands, while Flannery makes a surprised noise, that she is shy and inexperienced, but that was _just_ cruel. When they unlock hands, she grabs the lapels of his jacket. He can feel her hands – they are unsure. _She's_ unsure. Steven knows she doesn't know where she can place her hands, so he grabs her wrists and places them on his chest; she gets more area and he's a fan of women pulling on his hair either way, so. So…

In complete contrast, he knows exactly where he wants to put his hands. He's been eyeing the soft curve in her stomach, the one where her hips start, parallel to her belly button; he's been staring at her abdomen more than he cares to admit, because it isn't his fault that she always wears tiny tops that stick to her chest –

When he lets his hand dip, towards the end of her back, towards the start of her pants, he recognizes the softness of her skin, the sudden sharp breath she takes, the soft noise of fabric rustling when she tightens her grip around his jacket, and he pulls away, letting his hands fall from her skin. She blinks, surprised and very flushed.

Wait—wait.

"Um," Flannery starts, confused, "did I do anything wrong?"

He chuckles and presses a kiss to her forehead; there is nothing wrong with waiting. And waiting is _exactly_ what he needs to do. If not for him, then for her, who is naïve and too cute for him to besmirch (at least, so soon).

"No," he replies, softly, and takes her hand, "I just thought we should take things easy."

"Oh."

She stares at him, and then at their hands. She seems a little confused; he doesn't blame her. The first time he gets into her home, they end up in the kitchen, and she puts something other than food in her mouth. And now he is receding. Did she think maybe think he was fed up –

"I don't mind taking things easy," Flannery says, and then purses her lips. He has to control himself not to kiss her more. And then, in a whisper: "But I was enjoying this." She pulls him closer to her and presses a soft kiss to his cheek, and goes inside ("it's chilly outside", but he doesn't miss the flaring blush on her cheeks). He has to breathe in and calm down in order not to hit himself. Because why does he keep trying to play a gentleman when it's the only thing he doesn't feel like at the moment?

He follows her inside and kisses her again. It's heated but contained (she calls out his name tentatively, because he's acting like he doesn't know what to do, but it's still the whole hand-in-chin and her hands are in his hair, but still naïvely), and afterwards, he bids her goodbye, and heads out to the pokécenter. In the end, they don't see the whole meteor shower; but it's fine.

Of course he still can't sleep right, but at least he knows that she's after him, too; and now all he has to do is wait. When morning comes, though, and he wakes up from a particularly vivid dream about fucking in her balcony, he immediately comes to regret his decision.


	3. Filling Five Senses

**Ch. III  
Filling Five Senses**

He stares at the mirror and wonders if the man looking back is himself. Since when has he looked so tired, so indelicate, so unlike the man he has always been? Steven lets himself fall onto the small bed of the pokécenter room and absolutely does not think of Flannery. He doesn't think about her lying beside him in the small mattress, nor does he think about her beneath him, staring up at him with flushed cheeks, hands darting up to run her fingers through his hair, and he certainly doesn't think about pushing her against a corner of her shower and having his way with her, underneath the hot water –

He sits up, buries his face into his hands and tries not to sigh.

* * *

Steven's presence is required in Ever Grande. Ever Grande is a synonym to Wallace and Drake, two people who can read him like he can read Flannery. He isn't exactly thrilled to go there, and it shows. He takes his coffee black (cringe), because sometimes he is a masochist, and because he needs to get _used_ to cringing: Wallace isn't going to stop short of embarrassing questions.

Steven, of course, is right. When has he _not_ been right?

"So," Wallace starts. They are waiting in the lounge for Phoebe and Sidney. Drake and Glacia are by the couches, talking animatedly to one another (as far as Drake can talk animatedly, of course). Steven pretends not to notice Wallace's tone of voice.

"Yes?"

"Don't you 'yes' me," he continues. He elbows Steven in the arm, hoping to draw more out of him. "Just spit it out? Are you two dating yet?"

A pause.

"I—well—I wouldn't call it dating." When he sees the look on Wallace's face, he explains further. "It's only been a month yet, what were you expecting?"

"I've seen you break up with girls after three days, and yet—" he sighs, dramatically pinches the bridge of his nose. "It's not like I can understand, though. Why is it that you're taking so much time?" He does a hand gesture, and glances at Steven, whose lips are pressed together. "Okay, so you haven't, er … We can fix that. It's not like you don't know what you're doing, right? Or … are you chickening out?"

Steven steels himself. He really wants to tell Wallace to fuck off, but they're best friends, so he settles for a passive-aggressive state:

"What about Winona?" he says casually, and in the following second, Steven leaves, headed towards Drake, willing to see Wallace to destroy himself. Wallace doesn't disappoint; he turns red and the curve of his brow curves over his widened eyes. Steven smiles challengingly at him.

Wallace, two – Steven, one. He will have to even the score – preferably someday soon.

* * *

Drake does not say anything to him regarding Flannery; his smirks tell tales no mocks can. They run the numbers twice, make sure the atmospheric conditions are back to what they used to, because despite everything being said and done, it doesn't hurt to make sure that the world isn't going to end (again). Phoebe and Sidney skip the meeting for some reason, but other than that, it goes out without a hitch. Glacia and Drake split, but Wallace stays behind.

"That was a low blow," he says, sitting down next to Steven.

"What was?" He wrings his hands, plays with his rings. Wallace sends him a look, brow furrowed.

"Let's have it your way, then. So, how are things with Flannery coming along?"

"Fine."

"Fine," he repeats, with a higher tone of voice, with a singsong, with a really annoying smile. His hands reach his balancing knees. Steven wants to punch his little smile out of his face. "Things are fine?"

"What are you trying to say?"

"Like I've said before—" he breathes in; Steven gets ready for the inspirational speech, "I've seen you dump women after three days." Steven's record is two. Wallace doesn't need to know. "It's been a month and you—well, you've at least _kissed_, right?"

"I don't understand why you think this is your business," Steven says, and his voice turns out cold even though he's trying his best not to snap at him. "I don't remember butting in between you and Winona when you two were fooling around—don't give me that deer-in-the-headlights-look—when you two were fooling around in the League's closets, god damn it, did I ever pronounce myself about you? I expect more from my best friend than mindless chattering and, and – " he huffs and buries his face in his hands. This time, he actually sighs.

"It might not look like it, but I am actually trying to help."

"I'd rather you weren't."

"This boils down to you, being afraid of scaring her away."

It's not a question. He answers anyway: "Yes."

Wallace sighs sympathetically and pats his back.

* * *

They work out a schedule of texting and calling. It's not enough – she is never enough – but it makes him last through the day. He's buried beneath piles of paper, trapped between calculations and politics concerning his father's company, but if he catches the sound of his pokénav ringing, he'll immediately check it. He tells himself he is not disappointed when it's just Wallace or his father calling, but deep down he knows that's kind of a lie.

_I'm thinking of taking a break,_ she tells him, with a smiley face at the end, and Steven's never really understood the _point_ of it, but when she does it, it just looks horribly cute. He catches himself smiling. _Maybe I should travel a while, you know? See the world around me_.

He answers with an: _I think that is a very nice idea_, but at the same time he can't help to be a bit apprehensive. He's used to having her – no, wait, that's not what he means – he's used to _meeting_ her whenever he wants to. Steven knows it's unfair – he's free to travel the globe while she is cooped up in a small town – but. Well, he means, it's not like – it's not like they're dating. The word _dating_ has been uttered by no one except Wallace. Steven is not a violent person; he is, however, fairly knowledgeable of himself, and he knows he would not be able to handle a man hitting on her, sensibly. In fact, he is certain – one hundred percent certain – that he would get pissed in an over-the-top, overly embarrassing way. _Shit_—what's the matter with him? She's telling him she's thinking of traveling and he is wondering about people hitting on her? Sure, okay, so the newspapers haven't got wind of their half-relationship yet (if this is a half-relationship? What do a blowjob and fifteen minutes of kissing count for?), which means no guarantee that men won't be all over her.

It's just that—Steven knows for a fact that he is not the only one in the world who finds her incredibly attractive. He knows this because – just – okay, just trust him on that. He's embarrassed to think that there are magazines who rate her as a twenty out of ten, and well, he doesn't know if it's just a rumor or not, but according to Wallace (which means, according to gossip magazines) she's been asked to pose for Playboy. It's just that – _really_? How is a guy supposed to cope with this, when they're not even dating (yet) and she's already the prettiest face of the nation?

_Where did you start when you began your journey?_

He tells her he started in Rustboro for two reasons: because it's the truth, and because, even if it weren't, he wants to see her without losing face. She replies _okay_, with a smiley face at the end, and Steven gives up on trying to equate profit versus cost of machinery.

* * *

Steven has always been an early riser. Knowing that Flannery is going to drop by sometime soon is not an excuse for his groggy state at six in the morning. Outside, it's still night (what did he expect, it's almost Christmas), and he wonders if it's going to snow today. Snow, he thinks, fills all five senses; it is beautiful to the eye, crunchy to the ear, cold to the touch, has that wet, earthy smell, and tastes like rain. He's never really considered it before, he realizes, while he's sipping his coffee, staring into the empty streets of Rustboro. He doesn't really want to admit it, but Flannery opens his eyes to the things around him, doesn't she?

He stares into his empty mug, smiling, and then it's lost – just the thought of her has him smiling into empty coffee mugs.

How utterly embarrassing, really.

* * *

His morning goes by in a flash after that. He works in overdrive just to make sure he can finish what his dad asked him to because he doesn't want to be called to Devon in the afternoon. It's complicated: he doesn't want to feel as though he's being wrapped around her little finger, but he knows he's wrapping _himself_ around her little finger. Steven's never had to shift his timetables because of a _woman_, but – but he's doing that now. He doesn't know how that makes him feel. Except – except she doesn't text him once that morning, and it's after eleven in the morning that he realizes how he feels: like a love-struck teen girl. He's waiting for a text instead of sending one. How fucking ridiculous is this? He's traveled the globe, he's defeated elite trainers, he's the _ champion_.

And he's waiting for a girl to call.

There's a fair excuse in here somewhere, of course, and he tells himself he just doesn't want to smother her. But he _does_. He wants to, he wants _her_, and he hasn't had a good night's sleep since she dropped on her knees and took care of things herself. Actually, now that he thinks about it, he hasn't taken the first step once. Sure, he's kissed her, but that isn't half of what he can (and wants to) do.

He sighs to himself as he's powering down his laptop, his head swimming in equations and girls with red hair, and decides that today he is going to change something. If he sees her, then he will fucking get over himself and he will be bold. He is known for being startlingly honest and straight to the point, so today he is going to be.

It's obvious, of course, that as soon as she calls him, his ambitions turn into dust.

"Um, hi," she says. She is so cute when she is nervous, her self-love too small for her to believe that he is absolutely ecstatic to hear her voice. "I just got to Rustboro and – " a car goes by, cuts her off, " – if you would like to do anything?"

"I would like to," he replies, and despite the nervousness of it all his voice is smooth and silky; he guesses years of interviews have finally paid off. "Where exactly are you?"

There is a pause; he single-handedly grabs at his jacket, searches for his keys. Outside, it's not snowing, but it's raining, softly.

"Well, you see, I've never really _been_ here before," she laughs nervously. "I think I might be lost … ?"

Steven freezes, mid-search for his umbrella.

"I'll come get you. Can you tell me where you are?"

"Um, I'm at the gym. I'd ask Roxanne for directions, but it's closed."

Shit. Steven closes his eyes, pinches his nose. Roxanne _had_ told him she was traveling this week, but it totally slipped his mind. Shit, shit, _shit_ – he feels like he's disappointed her. Of course he was planning to count on Roxanne if Flannery was going to spend the night in Rustboro, he wasn't going to let her sleep in the _pokécenter_, for god's sakes. Not that there was anything wrong with that, but he just felt she deserved better, okay?

"I'll be there in two minutes," he says, and he hates that his voice comes out in a whisper, like he's concerned (he is) or dying to see her (he _is_).

"Thanks," she says, and he loves that her voice comes out in a whisper, like she's afraid, or dying to see him (he hopes).

* * *

He finds her by the gym's closed doors, a bag on her shoulder and her hand at her mouth; she's nervously biting her nails when he spots her, and Steven can't help but want to tell her she can bite _him_. He doesn't, of course—he is, after all, a gentleman, even if she makes him otherwise. He's on his way to wave at her when he notices she's drenched, and it is then Steven is aware that despite his agnosticism, there _must_ be a god who hates him:

It goes just like the scenes in the chick flicks Wallace is ever so fond of—her cheeks are red because of the harsh wind out in the streets, her hair sticking against her face, her bottom lip trembling, and last but definitely not least the thin fabric of her shirt practically glued to her skin. Steven has to swallow before he speaks. His throat is dry, and it stings when he breathes.

"I apologize for not remembering Roxanne was not in town," he says, frowning just slightly, shrugging out of his jacket. She blushes harder, and starts to say something like, _oh, please, I'm fine_. "I insist," he says, barring all objections, and looks away when she finally puts it on.

She is a delight in the eyes and in the ears, because her voice, despite shaky, remains as sweet as he remembers. And it's too much of an innuendo, to watch her inside his clothes; even though it's cold outside, he feels a little too warm.

So he takes her home with him. They catch a cab, trade a few awkward words, Steven wonders if he's accidentally left anything messy before he left, and suddenly, they're at the door of his apartment. He fumbles with his keys, almost trips in his welcome mat—basically, he's making a fool of himself. It's nothing that hasn't happened before.

Flannery's cheeks are red as she steps inside his apartment, and he's never felt so conscious of his minimalistic decoration before. There's a table, four chairs, a kitchen merged into the living room, a couch, a small carpet, a large window with way to a veranda, and then there is the corridor to his bathroom and bedroom. It's a large, fairly luxurious apartment (Rustboro apartments are usually much smaller than this, he thinks smugly), but to him, it has never looked so … so lifeless. Have his walls always looked this grey?

"Wow," she says admiringly, despite his panicking thoughts, "Your apartment is just like I thought it would be! It's really large, too—how did you get such a nice apartment in Rustboro?"

Steven _almost_ sighs in relief; he catches himself in time not to. "Well, I don't exactly _live_ here," he explains, taking his jacket from her, setting her bag on top of the table. "My, er, _proper_ house is in Mossdeep. You ought to visit one day," he adds gently, feeling a little satisfied at the blush on her face. "Anyway, I can see that you are," he pauses – he doesn't want to say _wet_, "drenched. I can direct you to the bathroom, if you'd like."

"Oh, thank you," she replies, flustered, fidgeting with her fingers. Steven smiles at her and even though he wants to kiss her, he doesn't (and he's not sure why—maybe it's because she looks tired and pathetically cute).

* * *

He tries to read through some files – archaeological things he studies sometimes – while he hears the shower running, just to try and clear his head. Keywords: tries, try. During the time his heater is fuming, he can't get the mental picture of the naked girl in his bathroom out of his mind. He wonders if she thinks specially about The Kitchen Chair, because he's sure that every time he steps inside his bathroom, he is going to think about that one time where she stood naked in his bathtub. Isn't that all levels of pathetic? He's like a fan boy.

By the time she's done (somehow managing to smell like apples, despite the fact that all his shampoos smell _nothing_ like apples), he's been reduced to a nervous pile of Steven Stone. He knows he can cook well enough to feed himself, but he doesn't want to cook for _her_ because he knows it's going to go horribly wrong. That leaves a restaurant, or maybe take-out food, but it's three in the afternoon and maybe she's already had lunch. He asks her anyway.

"Oh, no, I haven't," Flannery answers sweetly from the corridor, with a smile, "But I can cook, if you'd like."

Steven has to keep his smile under control. "I would love to," he says gently, even though he has this very dirty mental picture of her wearing an apron and little else. It would be a lie to say he's not anxious to taste something she's cooking, of course. He sits by the table and listens to her talk about her trip to Rustboro; he stares at her busy shoulders while she makes some stirred eggs, thinks about how domestic they suddenly are, and even feels a little warm at the thought of waking up to finding her cooking for him. Chauvinistic remarks aside, it's a very lovely picture he's painting.

"Well, _technically,_ I hitchhiked," she says, layering ham into the eggs, "since Grandpa dropped me off in Route 114—I just did the walk through Meteor Falls, kind of." Flannery shrugs, brushes her hair out of her face. "It was nothing much, actually. I was afraid I would get lost so I took two escape ropes with me," she adds, giggling. "Turns out I got lost in Rustboro—kind of stupid, really – "

Steven can't help but to frown. He wonders why she is such a shrinking violet, sometimes; she's visibly fine with sitting him down and giving him the best orgasm of his life, and yet, he can't help but to feel she prioritizes _his_ needs instead of _hers_. He's going to have to change that someday, utilizing an arsenal of underhanded techniques just to see her begging for him, her naked back digging into the counters of his kitchen –

Wait, what? Steven blinks, understands just what he has been thinking about for the last two minutes, and then warns himself that _he is not home alone._ Isn't this the kind of opportunity he's been waiting for these past days? Steven stares at Flannery's back absently, and decides that any course of action should be taken after they eat.

* * *

So she isn't just a pretty face; despite feeling smooth to the touch, being a delight to the eyes, having an adorable voice and smelling so nicely of apples – she is a wonderful cook. Steven's never liked eggs this much before.

The two of them have a somewhat strained conversation (during what should be a lunch but instead becomes an early dinner). Steven compliments her cooking thrice before he realizes he's been repeating himself, and Flannery can't help but to remain impressed that he has such a large (and well-furnished) apartment.

"It's not well-furnished," Steven says, a little confused. "I hardly drop by, so I've only purchased the essential."

"I like it. It's really simple. At least it's not a pain to clean, right?" He opts to omit he has a cleaning lady. "Besides, it's really you."

"Really me? How so?"

"Yeah," she says, poking at her eggs with her fork, "You just seem the type to never be home, so I guess it suits you."

Well. That's … kind of the truth. He steals a glance at the living room, and shrugs. "I only have an apartment in Rustboro because of Devon, you know. Sometimes, my father asks me to help him out with the company." He drinks the rest of his water and almost wants to drink whiskey instead. "I guess I can't really say no. I _do_ spend my time out travelling, of course, but …"

"That's great! So – you can tell me what to visit, first, right? Where do I go from here?" Flannery asks with a wide smile. "I was thinking about visiting Verdanturf—it's east from here, right?"

"Verdanturf is a small town, if that. It's got nothing much, regarding pokémon battling. There is, however, a nice bakery that sells a brand of homemade cakes I am very fond of."

They discuss the pros and cons of Verdanturf versus Petalburg, and then Steven realizes she has nowhere to sleep. It's probably then that his blood floods across his face, at the same time his brains floods his mind with the ways all the corners of his apartment could be used to. He piles the dishes on the sink just to try and clear his mind, and then he turns to her, swallowing.

"Where are you going to stay tonight?" he asks, levelly. "I would be more than glad to take you in."

Flannery pauses from digging inside her bag, and when she looks at him, her cheeks are red.

"Is that – um, I mean – "

"I-I'll take the couch," Steven says immediately (and hates himself for stammering). He doesn't know if it's just him, but Flannery looks a little disappointed. He hopes it's not just him. "I wouldn't let you sleep in the pokécenter when I can offer you a place to stay."

He's never once taken the couch before. Steven's previous love affairs have been – at the most – a fling. One-night stands, he agrees, are not the nicest thing in the world, but he's only a man sometimes, and … But with Flannery? It almost seems wrong to have her in his soulless apartment. Of course he wouldn't say no to a kiss or five, but when she is so inexperienced, so naïve and so, so pure, it almost feels horrid, to dip his hands in the curve of her waist, to let his tongue slide from the line of her jaw to her collarbones, to kiss her navel and let his fingers undo the button of her pants – _shit_. He's doing it again. He blinks and finds her staring at his waist, lips just slightly parted—

"… _Oh._"

There is really nothing else to say but _oh_, he thinks miserably, unable to react. She's looking at her fidgeting hands, a red color spraying from her cheeks, to her ears, to her neck (and _what_ a _lovely_ _neck_).

"Is that – normal?" His eyes widen. "I, I thought – does just – I mean, does _that_ just happen, or—"

"It's you," Steven manages, and then closes his eyes—what the fuck is he even saying? How unexplainable and amazing is the fact that just by standing near her and thinking about sex, he gets half-hard? The teenager years are over, but it's now that he finds that he can't control his sexual urges. Wonderful. "Well—not _you_ per se, it's just – " he keeps digging his grave.

There's an easy way to take care of it, of course, but he isn't going to tell her he's going to the bathroom—that would be too obvious, and he enjoys being perceived as a gentleman to whom these biological problems don't affect. Besides, he has no wish whatsoever to tell her he needs to masturbate because his fantasies about her have taken control again. And all the attention on his cock has him even harder than before (he should have worn looser pants today…).

Flannery – suddenly realizing she's been staring – averts her eyes to the wall on her left, like it's the most interesting thing in the world. She's still sitting down, hands on the table, her bare feet sliding uncomfortably against his wooden floors – her shoes are in the dryer, along with the rest of her clothes. This time, he realizes, he's the one in control; it's his house. He wonders: if the roles were reversed—maybe, just maybe, she would relieve him of his tension. So, maybe (just maybe), he should suggest it. He's uncomfortable, stiff (pun not intended), and all it takes is for her to breathe a few words into his ear for him to come undone. So …

"It's not like I haven't thought about this before," she says, suddenly, and Steven gets a déjà vu. By the time he notices, she's standing up, a few steps away from him, looking at the counter on which his hands are resting. Like they've just discussed baseball and the subject is done, there is a small awkward silence, multiplied by the fact that they are in the midst of discussing if she's going to get him off or not. Steven doesn't want to; his romantic side – which he's only now found out that _exists_ – wants them to at least have sex somewhere special, or something, but his other side, the logical/Steven side of Steven, just wants to grab her by her hips, sit her on top of the counter and make the sweetest of love against her. "I've told you before I don't mind. I just," she breathes, "You think too highly of me." When he turns to look at her face, she's already ducking, too close for him to see. Her hands are on his stomach, delightfully pressing down gently, and his breath skips. How _embarrassing!_ But he can't even care, because this is what he wants and he doesn't even have to ask for it. "Far too highly," she repeats, in a whisper, and he knows that this is all he is going to get out of her lips when it comes to her and Naughty Thoughts.

Her following motions are a blur; he feels his legs stiffen along with his dick when she starts to undo his belt, his head lolls backwards when she fiddles with the elastic of his boxers, his hands grip at the counter tight when her fingers finally slide against him –

He wants her to kiss him. Flannery is going slow, the top of her head between his chin and his neck as she stares down at her … work … and Steven doesn't know if he should pull her chin up for a kiss or if that would break the moment. So he chickens out, just tightens his hold on his marble counters. He can feel his Adam's apple against her forehead, and he in the middle of wondering if she can feel him swallowing when Flannery presses a kiss against the line of his jaw. Steven understands – she wants a kiss, one of his own, the type of kiss where she just needs to go with the flow because he knows what he is doing. And Steven complies; even as his back aches from being pushed against the counter, Steven gives her a breathy kiss, bites on her lip softly, looks at her as she recomposes herself. He doesn't have the courage to let his hands roam; at least not while _hers_ do. Flannery doesn't seem to have that problem.

At the same time he opens and closes his hands into fists, trying not to come embarrassingly early, trying to enjoy the feeling of her hands getting him off, she very insistently presses her lips against his, showing him hints of the brave young gym leader she is beneath her shyness. And Steven—well, Steven eventually gives up, because a small voice in the back of his head chides him for denying her something she so clearly wants. His finger tremblingly press against her neck and jaw, pulling her closer, and for a minuscule pause, she halts, squeaking in vaguely pleased surprise, and the small voice returns, very energetically trying to convince him to pay back the favor she is so kindly doing him. He can picture it quite vividly: pushing her against his kitchen table gently, leaning her over with a swooping kiss and an errant hand across the button of her baggy jeans, his fingers curling inside her as he listens to her melting moans—

He half-groans, half-moans against her mouth, feeling the familiar heat of orgasm rushing. Flannery's face is red as she witnesses him slumping against the counter surface, eyebrows crinkling in bittersweet embarrassment that she is this close and this attentive to him. He tries not to think about how deliciously humiliating it is, the fact that she is _watching_.

"Well - that - I mean - " she stammers awkwardly, staring down at her sticky hand.

Steven, still high from his fever, doesn't even think to stop now—instead, he pulls her against him, not even cringing at the feeling of pressure on the tender flesh between his legs, his experienced fingers undoing the her belt and button in a swift second, his lips on hers, the soft feel of her eyelashes on his cheek when she closes them, her body minutely relaxing against his, her nervous hands twisting in the lapels of his coat. She parts to breathe, her cheek resting against his shoulder, her face carefully hidden from his. How hideous—he won't stand for this, not when she's just watched him. Steven may be willing to wait, but he believes in equal trade and she is two points ahead of him. Which leaves him... Which leaves him turning their positions around, slowly, while she catches her breath, until it's her back against the counter. Not quite as he envisioned it in his mind, but he doesn't even think about wasting time trying to take her to his kitchen table, not when he has a perfect substitute right here.

He feels himself harden against her leg when he tips her chin up with his hand: her face is red and nervous and it is then Steven realizes he must have a sadistic streak, because he really wants to see her squirm in pleasure under him, or listen to her panting moans as he takes her on his bed, or feel her tremble against him in post-coital bliss, or smell her hair while he moves lazily against her, or even taste her just like she's tasted him once before. Jesus, he's going crazy—it's the only explanation for as to why his imagination is suddenly so vivid and hyperactive—

Beneath him, her hands gripping at the counter, in a way that's very similar to his previous movements, and Steven takes a second to evaluate the permission in her bright eyes. Flannery doesn't look away from him, even though her hands whiten at the knuckles with anxiety.

Finally, he leans in, tongue darting over his dry lips. He very purposefully touches the shell of her ear, breathes against her, feels her stiffen.

"What am I going to do with you?" Steven asks, and it almost echoes in his empty kitchen.


	4. Getting Carried Away

**Ch. IV  
Getting Carried Away**

"What am I going to do with you?" He can hear her hands twisting against the marble as she inhales. His lips perfectly placed against the shell of her ear, Steven can't help but to let them linger, losing a little of his control as he bites, softly, and she promptly relaxes against him, like butter on a frying pan. His sadistic side takes over after that, and Steven lets it, stepping aside, welcoming it. If there is no other way for him to get over his paranoia, then be it.

His hands drop from her chin to the sharpness of her hipbones, and his tongue darts out to lick at the line between neck and cheek, his lips pressed against her cheekbone time and time again. He notices it, too – the strain in her breathing, the shallow intakes of air, her eyes fluttering closed every time his fingers slide another inch.

Steven tries his best to archive everything; the wayward strands of her red hair, lost between her ear and her neck, her half-lidded eyes, very bright even in the pale light of the room, her heaving chest, her knuckles, her parted mouth …

Her chest expands with an anxious breath when his fingers finally cross the border between her underwear. Steven can't help the magnificent wonder from flooding his mind—she's so smooth and warm, her skin almost feverish as his experiments, his head carefully turned to the wall ahead of him just in case she feels too uncomfortable with him staring. He needs to stop from bucking his strained hips against her when she hiccups, the sound sweet and gooey in his ear, her hot gasps of breath bringing him up again. He bites on her neck, hard enough to bruise, soft enough to please, when he realizes it's his name she is whispering when his fingers twirl against her. He's not even half-way to the place where he can curl them and have her knees buckling when the sharp, clicking sound of keys outside his door snaps him out of it, and there is only enough time to turn his head and step to the side, shielding her from view (of someone he fervently wishes that isn't his father) like the quick-minded pervert he is, because the thought of getting his hand out of her underwear only occurs much later.

"Housekeep—" she starts pleasantly, and then catches the position they are on, him over her and her flushed cheeks and the downward angle of his arm, "_oh_! Oh, I—I'll come back later, the flushing woman at the door exclaims, grabbing at the broom in her hands with such strength he is almost surprised it doesn't break in two. "Terribly sorry for disturbing you!" she adds hysterically, already closing the door.

The silence that follows is … awkward.

To say the least.

* * *

She excuses herself to the bathroom while he sinks into his couch and pours himself a glass of scotch, filled enough to ease his frustrations. It figures that the maid had to come precisely the moment before he was going to pay back for the fantastic orgasms she's given him, because he is Steven and she is Flannery and because _this_ is going to take a shitload of time. Obviously. He winces at the bitter tingles running down his throat and massages the bridge of his nose, fingers which had been previously occupied with making her writhe against him tightening around the wide glass.

Flannery, still barefoot, quietly sits down next to him in the couch, very carefully avoiding eye contact. She's wringing her hands, he notices, and his eyes pause at her buckled belt. Just that image has him downing another large gulp of whiskey, because—because shit, he was really close to not feeling so helpless and so inadequate, and she said, she said that she thought about him and he wants her to, of course, but now the mood is perfectly ruined and he is drinking and she is wringing her hands and this feels like his last fling all over again, when the fire simmered down to a small, weak flame, and Steven detests that acidic taste on his mouth, the taste of nothing left to say, and he knows that one sweet kiss from her would be all that he needs to put things back on track, but … He doesn't want to start something just to fix this. That would feel like wasting Flannery's melting whispers. Deep down he knows he loves her too much to use sex as a distraction for their sexually frustrating problems.

"Sorry," he manages, and the pitch of his voice is lower and gruffer because of the alcohol. Flannery just shrugs helplessly with an awkward smile, burying her hands between her thighs, and he exhales because those hands should be his and her pants should be pooling around her ankles instead. "I wasn't expecting cleaning duties today."

"It's fine, really," Flannery replies pleasantly, like she thinks he can't tell that she's pretty effervescent and pink in the face. He twirls the glass, watches the controlled turmoil inside it. "I'd be lying if I said that I didn't want that, but I don't mind. It wasn't your fault. Or mine." She nods to herself. Then she pauses: "Or the cleaning lady's," she adds, with a slightly wider smile. He can't help but to chuckle at that, leaning over his coffee table to put the glass there. The amber liquid almost leers at him under the cool lights on the ceiling (he considers switching light bulbs), angry to be replaced by the pleasant company of the girl next to him. Between Flannery and booze, the choice is … easy.

"We'll carry on some other time," Steven acquiesces, with a nod of his own. Flannery blushes at that, but averts her smiling face, in no doubt to hide her pleased grin. "Well, I'm a terrible host," he adds, expertly switching subjects. "Would you care for some whiskey? I also have some wine, I believe."

"Oh!" She sounds surprised as she evaluates the drink resting on the table. "I don't drink much. I don't usually like alcohol. Besides, I'm kind of a lightweight." She laughs. "The last time I went out drinking was in Brendan's congratulatory dinner, and I ended up talking to Winona for hours on end." Flannery leans back with a nostalgic sigh. "Never mind that she was a little tipsy herself, of course, but …"

"Winona doesn't strike me as a lightweight."

"Oh, she's not. Believe me, she's _not_. I'm almost certain she was angry at someone, because I just had a few glasses of wine, but she downed a bottle and a half." Steven's eyebrows climb at that; Flannery notices and continues. "I know, I didn't think she had it in her, either. It was kind of a blurry night, really."

Something in Steven's mind clicks as he adjusts himself on the couch to turn to her, a small confident smile on his mouth. "Correct me if I'm wrong, but I believe the two of you were chattering by the bar the whole night." Her eyebrows knit together at the same time her lips diminish into an apprehensive line. "Yes, I remember that night. You had a theory about – correct me if I'm wrong – Roxanne and Brawly, and after that—"

"I know what happened after that," she cuts quickly, frowning even more, her cheeks dyeing red already. Steven is sure that he has a part of his self-contentment strictly reserved to watching her blush.

"And what was that?"

She squirms in her seat, comically uncomfortable, and the sadist inside Steven cheers.

"I asked you about being a champion."

"And then?"

Flannery sends him a sharp glare, a glare which only serves to add fuel to his amusement fire pit.

"I asked you about your rings."

"You held my hand for twenty minutes."

"W-Well you didn't let go, either!" she hurriedly adds, perfectly red by now. Her hands are closed into fists by her sides. "I remember that part, too, you know." How could he forget the soft skin of her fingers between his, the unguarded expression of inebriated cheer on her pretty face? And how could he forget his constant attempts of putting himself down, blaming her unabashed behavior on the alcohol instead of rightly assuming that she had a gigantic crush on him? He feels pretty silly now, so he lets his hand cover hers. She relaxes immediately, her fingers unfolding as he intertwines them.

"I know I didn't let go. I was honestly pleased at the fact that you chose to hold my hands over Drake's or Sidney's. Should I have not been?"

"Of course you should!" Flannery exclaims, and what she says only strikes her a second after she's said it, he can tell. "I wouldn't flirt with anyone else, four glasses of wine or not." She sinks back into the pillows. "I can't believe you never noticed I liked you, too." Steven feels his cheeks heat and starts to recognize the slow burn of anticipation and lust (and thinly-veiled embarrassment) splaying across the skin of his face. "I thought it was more than obvious."

"I do my best not to assume things when it comes to relationships," he says, and even though it's the truth it feels like an excuse.

"Please," she says, and rolls her eyes playfully. Where has her shyness gone to? Flannery switches between shrinking violet and fearless gym leader at the most unexpected of times; he wonders if this is a defense mechanism or if it's so imbedded into her that she doesn't even realize she is doing it. Steven isn't quite sure if he dislikes it: it gives him something to try and research about her, the many layers of self-confusion and cheerfulness overlapping around the nice person she is. "I made a fool out of myself more times than I can count, whenever you were around. I still kind of do, actually. You make me nervous."

"I could say the same thing," Steven replies casually, and his eyes widen when he perceives that he is sharing things about himself this easily. She is so nice for his social development, such a remedy for his icy-head. His thumb runs across the back of her hand. "I lose my cool often because of your presence."

"But you're you - you were champion - and you stepped down from your job undefeated - and you are handsome and intelligent and you're rich and you are heir to Devon and you are incredibly nice - " she sighs, eyeing her bare feet. "I didn't think I actually had a chance."

There it is again, the sudden change of roles. Steven opts to ignore it for the sake of the conversation.

"And you are young, far too good a person, and you are beautiful," she turns red once more, but he continues, undeterred, "and you are always looking for ways to better yourself. You are too good for me. _I _didn't think you could possibly be interested in someone as selfish and cold as me," he finishes flawlessly. In the slightly awkward silence that follows, they both pretend that he just didn't share his views about himself. Flannery looks at a loss for words, her eyes searching his face.

"But you are perfect—I,_ I mean_—"

He kisses her then, leaning over simply to press his mouth against hers, which is half-open. He doesn't even try to French her; he just wants to kiss her and never stop. A kiss is the perfect way to transmit to her the wave of warm, fuzzy feelings racing along his body, the perfect way for him to admit without losing face that she has him in the palm of her hand, the perfect way to thank her for thinking so highly of him, the perfect way to thank her for being someone he can talk this easily to. So he kisses her, and without breaking the connection between their fingers (fingers which are tightening slowly as his other hand pulls her neck closer), he loves her.

Flannery is beet red by the time he pulls away, a satisfied look on his face. Her right hand pauses on her lips.

"What was _that_ for?" she whispers, looking at him like a deer-caught-in-headlights, but a semi-outraged deer, or maybe a confused-but-pleased deer, he can't tell.

"I felt like it." He shrugs. "I've told you I was selfish."

"That's not being selfish," she replies, looking away from his sharp eyes, "that's being normal. To me, at least."

He kisses her again.

* * *

Eventually, after they talk throughout the night, he finds the signs of someone who is sleepy on her face and body language, and he walks her to his room. It strikes him only at that time that despite the failed attempt at sexual retribution, the climate after that was ever so familiar and warm. Steven can't help the smile on his face, and when she questions about it, also smiling, he just gives her a kiss of goodbye.

And that's when she asks him to sleep with her (that is, that's when he regrets having bought a king-sized bed).


	5. Keep The Light On

**Ch. V  
Keep The Light On**

His bed is wide enough for two, but the issue is not lack of space and is in fact that – the other person is Flannery. His hand lingers on the handle of his bedroom's door as he gapes at her.

"I just – it's kind of weird sleeping in your room all by myself," Flannery says easily, looking at him with innocent eyes. He almost can't believe this is the same girl who got him off just an hour ago. She's sleepy and casual, so unlike the girl writhing on his counter. He doesn't know what he likes more – if her domestic persona, fueling his fantasies-cum-fears of settling down, or the bold girl who'll half-admit she _would_ like to fuck him. He can't pick.

Steven wants to tell her that he'd be _far_ more comfortable with steering clear of the deadly mix that is Flannery and beds, but it's puppy eyes all over again—so he tells her, as fast as he can, that he just needs to check up on something Devon-related and he'll be right back. He flees to the living room, turns on his laptop and stares at it, somehow hoping that his desktop will answer all his desperate questions.

How does a relationship work? He's inadequately inadept at this. Ask him to get her off under fifteen minutes, well that's fine, he's stellar at that, but ask him to work out what they are and he's taking cover behind his work. This is Hoenn's champion – a man who's afraid of sleeping (literally!) with the girl he loves.

* * *

In the end, he waits an hour and a half before venturing inside his bedroom. The lights on her side are on, but no one's home; Flannery's curled up beneath his covers, her hair spread out like a fan. Steven leans against the door jamb, half-way to closing it. His mouth feels dry at the thought that she's in his bed, asleep. It's not even about sex—it's that she looks so small. Her knees brought up, one of her hands beneath her pillow, the other at her front – he wants to lie down beside her and wrap his arms around her, bring her closer.

He sits on the chair on the corner of the room, in front of his closet door, in front of the mirror screwed into it, and he shrugs out of his jacket. It falls to the floor but he has three of the same, so he doesn't even care that it'll get rumpled, because he can't pull his eyes away. Is this it? The finish line? Watching her sleep inside his bed, one of the most symbolic steps in a relationship? He certainly feels possessive enough, to complement the imagery (and a little resentful that she's not wearing one of his shirts, or something silly like that). But he doesn't know where to go from here. Flannery, were she awake, would inevitably find a way to get him into bed with her (not like _that_), using her innocent wiles. Using the way she simplifies everything so well he's almost appalled at the thought that he had difficulty with something like the cleaning lady incident. Using her eyes to get him to stay, even when he wants nothing more than to leave. Using her hands to stubbornly sit him down on the matress until they were both asleep.

Steven has no doubts she'd have him fall asleep next to her. The issue lies within him. He sits back, pops open the third and fourth buttons of his shirt (the first two had been opened when he'd gotten home with her), and tries to make a strategy. If he sleeps on the couch, he risks making her worry about herself, because who declines an invitation like that from the nation's beauty? So that's out of the picture. But the alternative is to get in bed with her and that is just … so awkward. What if he wakes her up? He's never really shared a bed before; at least, not so platonically. What is she expecting? Does she want him to touch her, does she want him not to?

He lets his head fall back, and the sheets rustle. Flannery rolls over, turns toward him, and opens her eyes. She's bleary-eyed still, her eyes very half-lidded. For a second, she looks a little confused, but then she recognizes her surroundings, and sits up. The covers fall to her waist, and Steven appreciates her too-large shirt, mentally replacing it with one of his.

"Hey," she says, and her voice is pitched deep with sleep.

"Hey," he replies, and, even though he's anything but sleepy, his voice is deeper than usual.

"Aren't you coming to bed?"

Wow. Okay. See—this is what he means when he says that despite his excellence at sex, he's absolute crap at relationships. All his life he thought that he could get by with flings and one-night things, but here he is, willing to throw himself at her feet, willing to to do whatever she asks, just because she's Flannery. And Flannery is asking him if he isn't coming to bed.

"You don't have to sleep with me if you don't want to," she says, after a moment of quietude.

"I never said that," he replies, a little too quickly, and feels the back of his neck heat. _Smooth,_ he thinks. _Real smooth_.

She brings her knees to her chest and leans on them, crossing her arms. "It's just that …" She sighs, small and quiet. "It's your bed."

"I was the one who insisted."

"Yes, I know, but," she sinks her reddening face into the space between her knees and chest, "why sleep on the couch when you can sleep here?"

He doesn't know. Because they're so new to each other. She's still blooming, and it shows – her curiosity overflows, be it regarding the world or regarding sex. But he's not going to be able to count on it forever, really, and she's bound to get tired if she continues being the only one pulling him closer. So far, all he's done is treat her with physical things, while she's gotten him to talk about himself (the largest of his taboos, in Steven's opinion), gotten him to open his eyes wide to the meaning of dating, made him think about buying a home and dropping to one knee—and kids? At least three. But she's scary. To Flannery – who he supposes hasn't had many boyfriends in the past, if her self-esteem is that low, if her curiosity is that high – this is acceptable. Somehow. He doesn't get it.

The normal transition of things: talking, kissing, touching (ahem). _Their_ transition of things: blowjob, kissing, awkwardly discussing their flaws. Why is this girl even _bothering_ to stay with him?

Flannery sinks her face further, and Steven belatedly realizes he hasn't answered her.

"I've never—" he sighs, "_slept_ with anyone before." She brings her head back up, eyes and mouth wide, and he backtracks. "I mean - I mean literally." He picks at the end of his shirt, just to avoid her gaze. It's a move worthy of a grade school student, but he doesn't care. "I don't know how it was with you, but I'm not the one for romance. I'm sure you can tell."

He sighs. They're doing this again; he's struggling to talk about himself, she's listening in silence, and they're both being awkward and self-conscious. What if he kissed her right now? What if he made her come right now? Would that fix everything? He doubts it. In fact, he's half aware that Flannery probably wouldn't appreciate being touched just to clear the air of something. And neither would he.

"You know, I've never really been in a relationship before," she says, and looks away when he turns to stare at her. "A real one, at least," she adds, shrugging her shoulders just so. "I've been training hard all my life to take over the gym. That doesn't leave too much time for boys." She smiles, rueful. "Besides, there aren't many boys in Lavaridge. And no one was ever really interested."

How could they not? He has a mental picture of Moore scaring teenager boys away from his granddaughter, and can't help but to give a curt laugh.

"What?" she asks, softly, pulling at her hair.

"I think those boys were fools."

_Ah._ Flannery presses her lips together, doing her very best not to smile.

"You think that?"

"I'm no stranger to intimidation," he replies, coating his voice in a sagely tone, "and I know for a fact that you are very intimidating."

"I am not intimidating!" She sounds amused. "I was the only one without a boyfriend throughout eight grade!"

Idiots. The whole lot of them. He would have held on and not let go, he thinks, but then remembers shrugging away his affections for her, before, and swallows in dry. He's a fool, too. He's about to comment on it when he picks up on the limit she unconsciously set.

"So in ninth grade…"

Flannery looks away. "There was a boy." He sets his chin on his hand, attentive. He wants to know about it, somewhat; there's a pull at the back of his head that complains about competition and how she's been with others before, but he smothers his jealousy and carries on. She takes his position as interest and goes on, slow. "It wasn't like – it wasn't very special. We kissed a few times," he feels a mild flick of annoyance, "but he would've dated anyone, I'm sure." She sighs. "We only dated for a month and a half. It wasn't a big deal – Grandpa didn't like him because he cut class and was a loudmouth and he had a funny laugh. But he wanted to be a fire-type trainer."

She's playing with her hair and Steven knows she isn't even doing it on purpose. He wants to pull her hand away and kiss it, or maybe just hold it, intertwine her fingers with his. He also wants to punch the ninth-grader who kissed her.

"When we graduated from grade school he moved to Lilycove, so—that was that. I went to Mauville for high school, trained on my free time, and when I graduated Grandpa gave me the gym." She leans back against the header of the bed. Her hair falls back, slips over her shoulder. "And then we met," she adds in a whisper, cheeks reddening, and Steven realizes he's smiling, too, and he feels his cheeks scald.

"And then we met," he repeats, but despite everything the distance between the bed and the chair he's sitting on is still far too big.

Flannery must read his mind, because her eyes dart at the floor and then at him, and suddenly she's huffing and throwing the covers to the end of the bed. He is a little disappointed (although not surprised) to see her wearing a pair of loose shorts, reaching just above the knee. She takes wide, defiant steps toward him, and then she grabs his hand and pulls on it with surprising ferocity. A half-forgotten thought regarding straddling and kitchen chairs comes to mind, but then he hits the bed and falls against the mattress. His head misses the pillow but so does hers; they're between the two.

"There," she says, lying on her side, to his right. She's losing her battle against sleep. "Was that so hard?"

Steven's throat is dry. He shakes his head, smirking, and pushes her hair behind her ear. Flannery smiles at him, eyes closed, and brings her knees up just slightly, until they touch his own.

A few minutes later, her breathing evens out. Steven sits up as carefully as he can, pretending not to have been staring at her for the last ten minutes, and brings the covers up. She curls tighter when he lies down again, hands reaching for his shirt, and Steven decides that it is common courtesy to return the lovely (if unconscious) gesture; his left hand very carefully sets on the curve of her hip and stays there.

He falls asleep while wondering how to turn off the light without getting up.

* * *

When he wakes up, she is still asleep. He is momentarily confused, because it's been ages since he's dreamt about waking up with her, and then it clicks and he smiles unabashedly just because. Judging from the outside, it's still early morning; the gray sky seeps into the room and fights with the yellow light from the night-stand. He's halfway into turning to see the time when she moans sleepily, frustrated at being bothered in her sleep. Her head shies away from the light and into his chest, and her arms go around his stomach and pull him into her. This adorable moment, Steven can handle.

What he can't handle is her right leg curving over his left and slipping behind it, hooking his between hers. She's warm and she smells like apples (as usual) and when she breathes he feels it slipping down the unbuttoned part of his shirt. He hurriedly pulls his hand out of her hip when she brings her foot into dangerous territory, and it's the worst time in the world to find out that Flannery is quite flexible, because she's not even trying.

He focuses on the night-stand behind her, and, when that doesn't work, he tries figuring out what's the bill for electricity these days. That doesn't work, either. His hand is on her foot and it's as smooth as her stomach. At least she's not ticklish; he wouldn't have an explanation to their position if she were to wake up. And yet, he kind of wants her to. Maybe because it wouldn't be so creepy to want to touch her, maybe because kissing someone awake can have very different results depending on who's being kissed. Steven lets his fingers run up her leg now that she's stopped moving it between his. He can feel her calf and her knee and he allows himself the forbidden pleasure of skimming the underside of her shorts with the pads of his fingers. Flannery sighs, fluttery and windy and Steven wants to kiss her.

He doesn't—not asking for permission (although he's fairly sure she'd let him) would be too eerie and he has standards, so. So.

His internal clock refuses to let him sleep, and his metabolism huffs disapprovingly, telling him that it's time for breakfast and that she'll sleep for another four hours if he lets her. Steven returns his hand to his side and turns his head as softly as he can, straining to read the red numbers on his digital clock. It's ten in the morning; he's surprised he's slept so late. Turning again, he looks into his chest, toward her, and he sighs.

He doesn't want to go, but he doesn't want to stay – not if it involves her waking up to his morning wood. Steven closes his eyes resolutely and sets her foot gently down, but just when he starts to get away, he hears her. It's so quiet, so soft, under her breath, but at the same time it is surprised and breathy and his hand tightens around her ankle.

"Steven," Flannery whispers, and groans, her foot flexing in his hold, tugging his hand closer to the string of her pajama shorts.

_Well, fuck_.

All thoughts of breakfast are immediately forgotten.


End file.
